


Skin-deep

by Seek_The_Mist



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, POV Adam, Past Abuse, Touch-Starved, Way Too Many Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 22:19:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7819432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seek_The_Mist/pseuds/Seek_The_Mist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Adam actually shares a bed with Ronan it is not calculated or carefully laid out.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"It should have been enough to make do, to put his mind at rest and stop the clenching of his stomach. He looked at the outline of Ronan’s shoulders and the span of his back and it was not, it was not, it was not."</i></p><p> </p><p>  <b>Pynchweek - Day 7 - Awake</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin-deep

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the second instance of "I give myself The Feels and I'm not really sure of how to roll with them". 
> 
> It out-grew on his own, stole my sleep and my mental sanity and please send lovely thoughts to my beta that had to suffer through it with me (I'm super grateful). 
> 
> Also, there will probably be a day when Pynch sharing a bed won't obsess me so much to construct countless plots over it, but today is evidently not the day. Sorry.

  
  


" _They were both hungry animals,  
but Adam had been starving for longer_ "

**Maggie Stiefvater - The Raven King**

  
  


 

The night was heavy with the constant pouring of rain, spreading the February cold throughout Henrietta and further. It was too dark to see anything, the room shadowed in shades of black and dark grey, lying perfectly still.

Nights like this were a nightmare in the trailer. The too-thin roof had clattered and shuddered under the weight of the water. The onslaught of rain had sometimes broken something, or at least infiltrated its way through improbable places and somehow reached the bedding. Even without thunder, the noise against the tin roof was deafening and there was no way to keep warm. The heating had shut down hours earlier, so the bedding needed to suffice, and every bruise and cut throbbed in the damp cold.

His room in St. Agnes was marginally better, if only because it was his and it was safe from the _you’re home beatings_ and the _get ready to sleep_ throwing of things. It was still high enough up to be little more than a nest under the shingles, the church below was a perfect echo chamber for the noise of the rain, and his wallet too thin to even think about turning on the electric heater.

Both places had been his home, and it required no leap of imagination to turn the storm into a sleepless night.

He had no excuses tonight to be completely, helplessly awake, at the Barns.

The sound of rain was diffuse and almost lulling, here. The house was solid and unbreakable under the hit of it, and with one additional floor on top of him, he was insulated from the loudest part of the storm. The cosy, encompassing warmth of the room spoke of dream money, as well as a centralized heating thermostat. He was also reasonably sure that the duvet was real cotton stuffed with down instead of a synthetic approximation.

Being comfortable was not the issue.

The issue was that he had never been this comfortable in a bed in his entire life. There was no dreamish-hellish occurrence to be preoccupied with, and even his acceptance letter for his top college was already in and read a thousand times over.

Everything was fine. Everyone was as fine.

He was awake.

Another really sensible excuse would have been not being used to Declan’s room, Declan’s bed, and whatever intermediate Declan stuff lay in between. But it was not the first time he had spent the night at the Barns, though it was not so common.

It was unplanned in the way it was always unplanned, his stays usually brought on by the pretence of necessity or practicality. The rain provided both today, along with Opal, who only agreed to go to bed if Adam and Ronan both stayed until she fell asleep. At that point, it was too late to properly avoid flooded streets in the dark with the Hondayota, and he was not selfish enough to ask Ronan to lend him the BMW.

The Barns were a place of comfort, in a stunning, almost inexplicable way, and Adam was comfortable. It was probably part of the problem.

Ronan, for all his room was always a cluttered mess regardless of the place or the age at which he occupied it, always seemed to have Declan’s room ready and in good order. The sheets were always clean and there was only a limited amount of random stuff deposited around. After the first couple nights, he reserved a toothbrush just for Adam, along with a towel, on whose texture Adam had made a half-approving comment once, which always ended up being available for him to borrow.

Only an idiot could miss the fact that Ronan liked it when he stayed over, that he wanted him around as much as he could be. The simple concept of being “in his life” was not enough to fit the need. Adam was a lot of things, but he was not an idiot.

Ronan’s needs were generally left unspoken or somehow conveyed through actions. His specific brand of possessiveness was utterly different than Gansey’s insistence that he move into Monmouth Manufacturing months ago. It did not provoke the same visceral need to push back and recoil in Adam.

He was awake, comfortable, and in a place that _wanted_ him.

He was struck by this realization, when held against the backdrop of the type of night that had been ingrained in his body as the most miserable. 

He rolled around Declan’s bed, worrying his left arm with his right hand in the nervous self check-up that had accompanied him through years of constant battering. Turning over reminded him acutely that there was no difference between having his deaf ear against the pillow and not. The check-up provided nothing, of course, but served to remind him of Ronan’s grip on his forearm when he kissed him goodnight hours before, his lips gentle and soft and recurring, coming back for more kisses than strictly necessary just because they could and they were both reluctant to stop.

The memory stretched something weird in his bones. It was deeper than fondness, and more convoluted than teenage sex-drive. He got up and out of the bed, and left the room before calculating all the implications.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The programming in his head, in his body, told him that being outside of his room once he had been allowed to retreat into it without further torment was a terrible idea, and there was no solace to be found from whatever might be hunting him.

Opening the door of Ronan’s room was almost a retaliation against his own mind. He slid inside, barefooted and quiet, closing the door behind him. The curtains were open and what little light could actually filter in at 3 a.m. on a stormy night was there only as an impression of movement throughout the room, reflecting the external slide of water.  
He spotted the suggestion of Ronan rather than properly seeing him – a bulge under the thick duvet, perfectly unmoving with his back to the door. He was most likely sleeping and Adam had apparently managed to not wake him.

Adam padded closer. He had always been good at being soft and unassuming, another skill of self-preservation that burned acidly into him. He still allowed himself to lift up the duvet and lie down in the double bed next to Ronan.

It took him a few second to properly acclimate to the new setting, and his own gesture. The bed was warmer, as he noticed almost immediately, but also felt completely different, more lively and organic. He squeezed his eyes shut while staying utterly still, listening to Ronan’s soft breathing concealing the much louder storm from him. 

With Ronan beside him, it was impossible to get really lost between the _then_ and the _now_ , between old habits and the comfort of the present. The obvious differences should have been enough to remind him of his safety, just like the pulse of electronic music to keep him anchored into his body while scrying. 

It should have been enough to make do, to put his mind at rest and stop the clenching of his stomach. He looked at the outline of Ronan’s shoulders and the span of his back and it was not, it was not, _it was not_.

He turned around slowly and let the duvet rustle softly, approaching Ronan’s sleeping body until he could rest his forehead on the back of Ronan’s neck and slide one arm around his waist. The beat of his pulse seemed to pound from every point of contact instead of just his heart.

Ronan’s breath halted for a second, only to be followed by a longer exhale. He was evidently not dreaming, or it would have not been impossible to shake him out of it so easily. His quiet hours were so rare that interrupting them should at least have elicited some guilt, but Adam only found himself wanting more, selfish and greedy. No relief was bigger than feeling Ronan’s hand minutely moving, a bit sluggish, to touch his arm.

“Adam?” His voice was hoarse and honestly confused, his hand grasping Adam’s arm a bit more surely, as if to test his realness.

Adam turned his wrist in his hand, until he managed to entwine their fingers together.

“Yes,” he confirmed, voice low.

Surprise and unease could both take the shape of tension in Ronan’s most basic body language, but the more solid grasp on his hand ruled in favour of the first option. Adam sighed, erratically.

“You okay?” Though his question was not the peak of articulacy, the concern was undoubtedly real.

“Yes. No. I don’t know” Adam smiled sardonically against Ronan’s skin, acutely aware that apparently Gansey had the best definition for every Ronan-related feeling in his mind.

Ronan slowly let go of his hand and pushed himself away enough to be able to turn around without hurting the both of them, only to draw Adam close again, towards his chest.  
Every new notch of physicality was better than the previous one and stirred something inside him, new and way too old at the same time. He hugged Ronan closer and let himself linger in the cocoon of warmth that their bodies created together under the thick duvet. 

The rain was still pouring, and even if it sounded distant every drop Adam heard felt like a sting, a flash of memory and unwanted sensation.

A long stroke against his back countered the vague tremble of his muscles. He hid his face in the curve of Ronan’s neck, marvelling at how he could feel the oscillation of his breath, the pulsing of his blood, his throat moving while he swallowed. Adam felt alive and overexposed in a constant current of impressions, and at the same time the sheer darkness of the room made everything utterly unreal, dissociated and slowed down like in Cabeswater’s sceneries. It was probably for the best.

“Ronan,” he murmured, desperately, “Ronan, please.”

“What?” The reply was weirdly heartfelt, though Adam had half expected a clipped and biting thing. 

Maybe it was the type of contrast that Adam needed to actually be able to reply. Nothing felt real, everything was too much, and he just needed without being sure what.

“Kiss me,” he replied in a hurry, but it was incomplete. “Touch me. Something. _Please_.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Ronan rasped, eloquent and inelegant, and then the thick night swallowed up the conversation like it had never existed.

Ronan did kiss him, though, and Adam was saved from having to ask again.

Ronan kissed his mouth while they slotted more comfortably together, fingers tangling in Adam’s hair to guide the tilting of his head and move the kisses to his face, his neck. Ronan’s breath was soft and humid as he moved to Adam’s good ear, making him shiver, only to be rewarded with Ronan’s tongue on the curve of his earlobe. One hand slid up and down every bit of his body within Ronan’s reach, sliding along his shoulders, arms, back, hips, and legs.

It went on forever, slow and reverent like an act of worshipping, soft and diffused.

Adam held on for dear life, sometimes chasing kisses or caressing and sucking on lips and skin in retaliation, sometimes lying still and clingy, too stupefied to even imagine how to contribute.

He was aware of Ronan’s deep breathing, its rhythm under his chest, and of his own breath, sometimes hitching, sometimes pausing altogether under Ronan’s careful touch, tentative and so gentle. His hands moved from above the clothes to under them, sliding skin-to-skin, intense enough that Adam’s eyes closed instinctively while he whined softly.

He was not aware of the rain anymore.

Adam had not come here with thoughts of sex, but the constant touching had reduced him to a whirl of physicality, coaxing him into arousal. Ronan pressed his cheek against Adam’s shoulder with a low, helpless groan, before fiddling around with their pants until he could actually grasp both of them in one hand.

The sensation was strong enough to cross his eyes, but even though they were usually rushed about sex and his body was humming with pleasure, Ronan kept his touch intense and steady, even while his arm was shaking. He pressed Adam close against his chest with one arm against his back and looked for his mouth in the dark, the kiss all a full slide of tongues and warmth.

Coming under Ronan’s hands was almost an afterthought, his mind cloudily defused in the darkness and his own body completely alight already. He still ended up digging his fingers into Ronan’s tattoo when everything burst like a flood. That, too, went on for way too long. Adam was vaguely aware of his own moaning and the way he scratched his fingers against Ronan’s back again, once he noticed the tremors it elicited. There was wetness between them and Ronan kissed him overwhelmingly, dissolving whatever memory of his earlier terror Adam had barely retained.

When he regained a feeble focus on physicality, his body was still twitching, oversensitive in every definition of the term, nerves alive that he never knew he had before. 

He was wheezing a bit, in an unconscious tandem with Ronan, and for the first time in his life the roaring hunger and the encompassing need in his mind were quiet.

He had the suspicion that Ronan could feel it in his thoughts, in his inexplicable knowledge of him, because when he managed to say,

“Thanks”

his reply was just

“Sleep now, Adam”

Adam closed his eyes obligingly, feeling more inside himself and less scattered around the darkness.

The hand on his back was still there.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> We might really survive Pynchweek without me completely losing my mind. Getting engrossed in Adam's POV is a complicated exercise and you can blame the books for suggesting me a canonical mess.
> 
> Scream at me to go the hell to sleep on my [Tumblr](http://seekthemist.tumblr.com) or leave a comment to give me the grasp of what I actually managed to communicate through this stream of consciousness of a fic!


End file.
